


17 reasons why two men should not tango

by Tav



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe, Dancing, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage, Pining, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its Eames' fiance's dream to dance the tango with her new husband on their wedding night. And Eames, being the ever pleasing man that he is, agrees to take separate lessons from the best of the best, the big night being the first time they will be dancing together.</p><p>There are many things that Eames knows.<br/>Eames knows he simply cannot dance.<br/>Eames knows Mal always gets her way, so there is no use arguing the matter. <br/>Eames knows his dancing teacher is possibly going to retire after their first lesson together. </p><p>What Eames doesn't know is the many dangers that come with two men doing the tango.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Eames nods once as he walks across the studio to the mirror lined corner where he’s mentally marked his territory. Arthur nods back before returning to his class.

 

It’s a lovely little corner, the angle offers a perfect view of the entire studio, immaculate wooden floors decked beneath reflecting high walls.

 

The ladies dance in perfect sync, spinning on their toes to the music. Pleasing their teacher as he weaves himself between them. Far enough to avoid being kicked during twirls but close enough to monitor form.  And as usual, Eames finds himself monitoring Arthur’s form.

 

Arthur is all long limbs and precise angles, the muscles in his legs make themselves known where his tight tracksuit pants end below his knees and don’t meet his ankles. His dancing shoes are as sleek as the man in them, a serious black and deep shiny grey like the thin vest that wraps snuggly around his waist absorbing the sweat layering his back.

 

Eames knows that Arthur is always damp at this hour, and not just because of the way he throws himself into every single dance step as if it would be painful not to. Eames knows that Arthur is clammy because of the way Eames has glided his own hands over all of that subtle, firm muscle. The type that might have even gone unnoticed had Eames never been permitted to touch. To see. To taste.

 

The thought alone makes Eames stiffen in his slacks, something he is thoroughly used to by now and conceals perfectly with the way he tiredly shuffles through his duffel bag to trade his shiny black office shoes with a pair of trainers similar to that of his dancing coach. Eames chuckles as he recalls his first ever dancing lesson. How he'd made the mistake of coming straight from the office with no more than a smile and instructions from his fiancé to be there. How Arthur had taken one look at him in the empty studio before silently proceeding to turn off the lights and slide into a dark hoodie.

 

"You're not messing up my floor in those," Arthur had said, looking pointedly at Eames’ shoes before honestly leaving Eames in the dark studio with not even so much as a goodbye.

 

That night Eames had seethed and sulked and told Mal that Arthur was full of shit. Mal had seethed and sulked and told Eames that she refused to marry him if he missed another lesson because Arthur was the best in the state and she was not going to settle for anything less than perfect. Mal, bless her, always got her way.

 

Eames watches as Arthur joins in to warm down his class. He rolls out an ankle or two and is completely unfazed by the way he’s making the young ladies blush. By the way some pout when he wraps up the lesson before getting special attention from him. By how they try desperately to engage him in just a little more banter even as he’s ushering them out and telling them to get home safely.

 

And then Arthur presses one hand against the door, the other sliding over the silver lock. Indecisive as always. There is always just one moment of tentativeness that is made clear by the obvious tension in his shoulders and the clench of his jaw.

 

Eames grins when Arthur dims the lights, filling the room with gilded intimacy. He feels his body thrum with warm eagerness, fingers twitch with excitement.

 

He stands as Arthur makes his way over to the sound system and rummages through his cd collection as if Eames is not even there at all. He walks quietly to the center of the room, certain that he would have murdered Michael Buble a long time ago and broken all the mirrors and called Mal’s bluff were it not for the molten heat that courses through his entirety whenever Arthur looks at him. Were it not for that moment when Arthur finally turns around, blocking out the world and wrecking his existence with the intensity of his gaze. Those eyes. Terrifying eyes with skilfully hidden secrets that Eames has been stupid enough to try and extract.  

 

And when Arthur is close enough and their shoulders are aligned and toes nearly touching, Eames reaches for Arthur's hips and yanks him forward, crushing their groins together deliciously painfully. Because Eames is Eames and he will do things like that solely to get shoved away by an honestly pissed off Arthur. Solely to see Arthur’s eyes roll at his laughter. Solely to catch that hint of a smirk and ghost of a dimple as Arthur turns and slides into position. As if he’s slipping into an entirely different skin. Beautifully vulnerable yet in control all at the same time.

 

And Eames steps forward and also tries to forge himself into something of a dancer even though he knows he must look ridiculous because he is too large and broad and clumsy to be anything close to one. But all doubt flies away when he makes the mistake of turning his head to stare in the mirror, into the reflection of just how bloody fucking perfect they’re bodies look together as he slides one hand over Arthurs toned stomach and Arthur leans back into him. Throws an arm back around Eames’ neck. Exposes the ridiculously lovely looking line from his ear to his collarbone. Tempting. Sweating. Stained in blotches of red that make Eames know exactly what kind of affect he too has on Arthur.

 

But Eames does not make the mistake of indulging in what his cock is taunting him to take, encouraging him to recall how good it will feel. How it will make the painful strain go away. How it will sate every growing need. Eames won’t do a thing about it after what happened the last time he tried to take what he wanted before their first step. He remembers how Arthur had turned in his arms with reserved strength and slapped him so hard that he had to tell Mal he’d missed a step and knocked his face. He remembers how Arthur had refused to continue teaching him because (Arthur had the decency to at least lie to Mal) Eames was not taking class seriously.

 

And so instead of dipping his head and licking the goosebumpy flesh, Eames hooks his fingers with Arthur’s and pushes Arthur away from him in a way that sets Arthur spinning. An act so painful that it feels as though it’s ripping something from Eames’ chest with every inch lost between them. And when Arthur offers Eames his other hand, Arthur does something insanely edible with his hips before allowing Eames to yank him back into his arms. And they are chest to chest, core to core and Eames feels as though he can breathe again. He only just remembers to grab Arthur’s thigh when Arthur’s leg wraps around his waist. He almost forgets to take those three determined steps back, dragging Arthur along with him. And Arthur feigns defeat so well, allowing himself to appear completely submissive as he clings to Eames’ shoulder and cradles his head.

 

Eames knows that the gentle way Arthur tugs his hair, the way Arthur looks into his eyes, the way Arthur allows them to be so close that they are literally breathing into each other’s parted lips -Eames knows that _that_ is certainly not mandatory professionalism.

 

Then the moment is lost entirely during the few seconds it takes for Arthur to throw his leg back as Eames does the same and there is a brief pause before they slowly drag each other back to full height. And then Arthur is gone, and Eames is left breathing like an animal as Arthur circles him. As if inspecting Eames, sizing him up. Checking if Eames is worthy of bedding him tonight. Or ever.

 

Eames grins, listening to Arthur do brilliant poetic things with his legs. Unable to watch, but able to picture every movement from the many times he was permitted to.  Then Eames is forced to move his legs too the second Arthur is back in front of him.  From here the footwork is intricate and synchronized as their bodies’ coil and move across the floor. Forms bumping but not colliding, legs seemingly at battle to be in the other’s space. But their knees never knock and hands never unlace and eyes never unlock.

 

Eames counts the seconds in his head until the moment arrives and Arthur jumps into his arms far too gracefully to be legal. And Arthur arches back as Eames spins them once. A move so quick that Eames is only granted a second to lick his lips at the sight - the place on Arthur’s belly, the thin strip of flesh that gets exposed when Arthur’s top rides down. And his navel is bared. The trail of hair from his bellybutton to the thin line of this briefs is dark and trimmed and shiny.

 

When Eames swings Arthur back into his arms, their lips touch. It could be passed off as an accident were it not for the disapproving glint in Arthur’s eyes. And Eames is unable to hide the smirk and knows he will pay for it later. But not just yet. Because Arthur has to focus on jumping off Eames hips, twisting one leg in front of the other in two fast steps before retaking his position on the larger man’s hips. Only to be flipped over in a agile backward somersault that he lands perfectly every time.

 

And Eames absolutely loves this part because Arthur stays down, one leg stretched ballerina-like behind him and the other one holding him up. Looking up at Eames as if Eames is his master and he’s not allowed to do anything until he is told to.

 

And When Eames is in front of him, one of Arthur’s hands goes to his hip and the other travels up Eames' stomach and Eames almost loses it entirely. Because it absolutely is not part of the routine how Arthur is dragging Eames’ top up, exposing muscled, tattooed belly. It isn’t part of the routine how Arthur buries his face in Eames crotch. It isn’t routine at all and so Eames doesn’t feel bad for how his own hand moves to the back of Arthur’s neck. Coaxes him forward. Indulging in the way Arthur honestly takes in a deep, healthy breath.

 

But it’s short-lived and Arthur is suddenly on his feet, pacing away from Eames. And that isn’t part of routine either. Eames is expecting Arthur to start shutting down and packing up because Eames took things a step too far, Arthur has done just that before. Eames isn’t expecting to watch his shirt buttons shower to the floor as Arthur rips it open none too gently. He isn’t expecting Arthur’s hips to rub hungrily against his own as Arthur yanks the damaged material off of Eames’ shoulders and tosses it far away. As if its very existence has been angering Arthur all evening.

 

And then Eames’ mind catches up with everything he hadn’t been expecting and he pulls Arthur so close to him that he’s sure he’s physically hurt the other man. And his tongue is hot and wet and deep in Arthur’s mouth and Arthur merely bites back in response to Eames’ desperation.

 

The first time it happened it was Eames’ seventeenth lesson (and last time walking if he stepped on Arthur’s foot one more time). And so with the threat in place and his shin still tender from Arthur’s swift kick to share his pain with his impossibly graceless student, Eames finally, successfully made it through the entire routine without a single error. And the lyrics faded away with the tune and Arthur remained panting in his arms long after the silence had become fiercely deafening around them. Arthur’s face a mixture of shock and something else that Eames couldn’t quite read until Arthur’s lips were over his. Hot and painful and suicide-worthy because he honestly felt as though he would hang himself if he woke up from such a moment.

 

But just as soon as the kiss began, Arthur ended it, looking utterly furious with himself. Furious with Eames. Furious with the door if the way he slammed it had anything to say about it.  

  
Regardless of Arthur’s admonitions of how something like that would never happen again, should not have happened at all in the first place, it was Arthur who failed dismally to stay true to his declaration. Once more and then again. It was only a kiss followed by a fiery rampage that Eames refused to understand because the more he thought about it, the more he found himself breathless and lost. Wide awake in the dead hours of the night. Beating himself off as if his life truly depended on it.

 

It was after the fourth time that Arthur shamelessly claimed Eames’ mouth that Eames reached his breaking point. Because Arthur had been one clumsy step away from falling flat on his back and Eames had been there to catch him. And his knee ached from where it hit wood, sparing Arthur’s spine such a fate. And Arthur hadn’t loosened the grip on Eames shirt, grip so tight that it caused white fabric to ride up his back and expose his belly. A doing so far off in the distance that Eames only realized he was being undressed when he, in fact, was. 

 

Sprawled out on the polished wooden floor with Arthur naked beneath him, Eames quickly realized that making love to Arthur was exactly like dancing. Arthur’s moans were their orchestra. Arthur’s climax, their standing ovation.     

 

“How was the honeymoon?” Arthur asks brokenly on a grunt as Eames works a finger deep inside him. They always find their way to Eames’ perfect little corner. Arthur always looks absurdly gorgeous as he braces his palms flat against the mirrored right angle, huffing temporary stains against glass. Sobbing shortly and spreading legs wider as Eames works cool lube deeper.

 

“Piss off.”

 

“You’re no longer obligated to come to class.”

 

“Then start giving me lessons on how to stay away from you, Arthur,” Eames croaks out.

 

And it was supposed to be sure, maybe even slightly humorous, but it’s neither as Eames wraps his arms around Arthur and loses all equanimity inside his lover’s warmth. Their bodies agree on a rhythm that rocks out sobs that are so embarrassingly desperate that Arthur remembers to reclaim some control like the control he’s always falsified on the dance floor. But Eames knows better, even as Arthur arches back and wraps an arm around Eames' neck and controls the way he’s fucked down onto Eames' leaking cock, demanding Eames' hips remain still. Even as Arthur barks low orders at Eames to touch him and Eames obeys, hand stuttering fast and rough over Arthur’s cock. Eames knows that Arthur has never once been in control of a single thing between the two of them.

 

Until the day that Arthur finally is.

 

“Let me rephrase,” Arthur says, pulling the last of his gear back into place as Eames still lays panting on the floor. Naked. Sated. “You’re no longer welcome in my class, Mr. Eames.”

 

“Arthur,” Eames glowers, still too gorged to go after the smaller man as he retreats towards the door. “Arthur, you don’t mean that, darling.”

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Eames days are empty.

 

His promotion is soundless, his new corner office – rhythmless. His short walk to his new car on the top floor parking lot of the eleven story building, it completely lacks motion.

 

It’s been six months since Eames last danced with Arthur, yet not a single day passes without every step resounding so vividly in his head. The curve of Arthur’s hips with every calculated sway. His form, solid and sure, fingers often bruising. What was once a comforting memory now torments his sleep, darkens his dreams because the realization of the finality in Arthur’s last words became clear the first night he returned to Arthur’s dance studio only to find it occupied by an oddly enthusiastic yoga class.

 

“Whatever happened to that dancing instructor you liked so much?”

 

Mal hums an uncommitted response as she drops down beside her husband and hands him his beer. She sips on her own wine, long slender fingers and faultless red lipstick and diamond earrings reminding Eames every day of how fiercely he misses Arthur’s imperfections.

 

“The chap who taught us this dance,” Eames points at the image on their flat screen television of Mal and him doing the tango. Eames has never watched their wedding video. Eames has always been too busy to watch it. Too tired to sit through eight hours of vows and celebrations that feel more like nothing every day. Too scared of how he might feel if he catches a glimpse of Arthur in the chapel or the dining hall, or God forbid, on the dance floor. Because Mal had forced Eames to extend an invitation but Arthur never did RSVP. Eames figures that half a year without enquiring about the man he slept with every other night is long enough not to sprout suspicion. Because like everything else annoyingly perfect about his wife, her perception is awfully sharp. “I happened to see he’s no longer at his usual spot. Thought you might know where he’s vanished to.”

 

“Why are you so curious,” Mal beams up at Eames, pulling his beefy arm over her slender shoulders. She is far too captivated by the pretty video editing to notice her husband’s pulse quicken. “From what I recall, you hated the poor guy.”

 

“Oh I did,” Eames chooses that moment to swig from his beer to buy himself time,” but any man who is able to make me move even more beautifully than you is clearly a gem.” 

 

Mal chuckles, hits Eames stomach with the back of her delicate hand and falls back into the video. Eames grits his teeth before trying again.

 

“I don’t know, love, we did it so wonderfully,” Eames squeezes her shoulder and puts on a charming smile. The same type of smile that got him an Xbox and a pool table and allowance to host poker nights in their game parlor every Thursday night with the boys. “Maybe I just adore my wife so much that I’d like to dance with her every now and then.”

 

And when Mal looks up at him, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushing, Eames feels the sharpest twang of hope box him in the gut.

 

“Seriously?” Mal beams as if he’s asked her to marry him all over again.

 

“I would like that,” Eames confirms, practically feeling every inch of Arthur in his arms already.

 

“Well if you’re serious I’ll get the phonebook and we can -”

 

“No,” Eames snaps a bit too quickly, hand grabbing Mal’s wrist a tad too tightly. She bounces back down onto the couch beside him, just barely managing not to spill even a single drop of deep red wine on ivory suede. “I want Arthur. I mean - I prefer Arthur.”

 

“Jesus, Eames,” Mal frowns and grounds her glass on the coffee table. “I know Arthur is one of the best but he isn’t the only dance instructor that knows how to get the job done.”

 

“Yes,” Eames shrugs tense shoulders, “but he is the only one, I’m sure, who is patient enough to spare my limbs when I bugger up a move. Regardless of all the less than kind threats, I know with him at least I’ll make it out alive.”

 

“You’re being stupid,” Mal finally breaks the silence that they had wordlessly agreed on in order to let Eames’ nonsensical gibberish try its utmost to make at least even the slightest amount of sense. “And if you _must_ know, I heard that Arthur no longer dances. Some rather ludicrous public declaration that raised a lot of brows, you know how melodramatic artists can be.”

 

“He doesn’t dance anymore?” Eames feels heat rise and then freeze over at Mal’s apathy with actualities that should be taken disastrously. “He can’t not –”, he rethinks his approach, “why would he just not dance anymore?”

 

“Like I said,” Mal gets up again, this time with no interference from her husband, “it was based on some ridiculous concept. Something about swans. Honestly, Eames, it’s all over YouTube. Join the 21st Century while we’re still in it.”

 

That night, Eames sits alone in his office. The light from the monitor casting pale blue light on his unkempt existence, large dark profile flickering ominously on the wall behind him. Like an imitation of the dismay that swells and breeds and inhabits itself inside of him.

 

The title of the video he has yet to open indeed does suggest that Arthur - dancing prodigy, Arthur – has no intention of ever dancing again. And Eames clasps his clammy hands together and rests his chin on his knuckles as he waits for it to load. And when Arthur’s still form becomes animated as he shifts from foot to foot, clearly uneasy in front of the camera -the heavy microphones in his face –the flashes from persistent and intrusive photographers, Eames hold his breath. Because the interviewer off-screen has asked Arthur why he decided to walk away from his dancing partner of seventeen years, mid-routine in what could easily be the biggest dancing competition of his entire career. And Arthur is still in costume, his temples still slightly damp. Chest still heaving. And then Arthur replies, Eames guesses solely due to the fact that the tops of the microphones are starting to resemble black and silver barrels of pistols.

 

“Swans only have one partner their entire lives,” Arthur begins and the previous buzz of misplaced questions instantly silences, leaving behind only flashes and snaps. “I believe I was lucky enough to find my swan but unfortunately said swan doesn’t accept the fact that it’s a bird.”

 

“You’re making no sense, Arthur,” the reporter persists. “Euphemisms aside, we were all under the impression that you and Ariadne were made to dance together. How has this changed? Even you have said so yourself.”

 

“I was wrong,” Arthur says simply and tries to make another escape, an older man clutching his arm who Eames guesses is his trainer or coach or agent.

 

“You’ll be facing severe penalties for the stunt you just pulled,” another reporter all but demands Arthur’s attention. “But when it all blows over, will we be seeing you back on the dance floor.”

 

 And then Eames’ heart clenches as a sad sort of smile ghosts over Arthur’s face before he says, “Don’t hold your breath. I stopped holding mine six months ago.”

 

That night, Eames leaves a crying Mal in their bed beside his wedding ring perched on the nightstand.

 

That night, Eames goes in search of his swan.


End file.
